


Ungraceful

by metal_eye



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, Kris Allen (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Extramarital Affairs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2019-01-20 14:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12434481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metal_eye/pseuds/metal_eye
Summary: Adam is not expecting Kris to show up on his doorstep. It throws him off, and complex emotions ensue.





	Ungraceful

**Author's Note:**

> mrsfjl66 won my charity: water auction for $15! She requested a TeamDL fiction piece, with or without sex. She gets dialogue fic with implied sex. Hopefully it feels real, and there's somewhat of a payoff. (circa 2011)

 

After picking him up and swinging him around, after kissing beneath his chin and feeling the five o’clock fuzz, after your touch-instinct reacts far ahead of your reason, you step back and stare at him, and then it registers.

“… What… what are you doing here?”

“I took a taxi from the airport,” Kris says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to end up on your doorstep when he should be on a plane to Hawaii.

“You took…”

“A taxi.”

You shake your head as if to clear it. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know,” Kris shrugged. So fucking innocent. “But I wanted to be.”

You can’t stand it, suddenly. Anger boils over. There’s no time. “What the _fuck?”_

Kris flinches, but it doesn’t stop you.

“You just _spring_ this on me?”

You have to prepare to be happy these days—plan bliss like others plan parties.

“… It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“No surprises. No. You can’t do that. You can’t just _decide_ things right now. They’ll—”

“What? What will they do? I almost don’t care.”

“You’d care,” you say. “You’d care if we’ve been this careful for two years and then we have to wait two more.”

You’re too closed off, too inside yourself, again, and you can feel your thoughts loop and re-loop, trying to mine some logic out of Kris’s actions. But there is none. Your relationship was never based on logic—why try to saddle it with such things?

You see Kris becoming overcome by desolation, the way you have been in the past—so close and yet _not allowed_ to stop, though it would be so normal… unfair to have to wait on a runway in Los Angeles, nerves gnawing while others deplane and he’s _not allowed—_

—suddenly standing up, sick of the bullshit, saying he needs to use the restroom, grabbing his duffel and heading for the end of the aisle.

“You left her,” you say, kind of aghast but not very sorry.

“No,” Kris says. “Not really. It’s no worse than I’ve done before.”

“Did she call you?”

“Twice. I told Lizzie to deal with it.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“I guess.”

“Selfish, too.”

“Can’t I be? Everything else… it’s all for someone else. What will _they_ think, what will _they_ say.” He’s got both hands wrapped around himself, as if to protect something. “I wanted to do this for me… for you. And… I didn’t want to miss your birthday.”

“You’ve missed _everything!”_ you try. “ _We’ve_ missed everything! The ‘first date’, the ‘first anniversary’, fuck, any dates at all… we never got _any_ of it. We missed that part. We—”

“Stumbled into something,” Kris says. “How… ungraceful of us.”

You sigh. “What did you even tell them, anyway?”

“… that my flight was delayed.”

Laughter. You can’t help it. “Jesus. _Delayed._ Like everything else in this fucking relationship.”

“Adam…”

“Just. No. Fuck you. I can’t…” Cry. Because that would be… ungraceful. “I have to go out. I already made plans.”

“For how long?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah. To me.”

Paused, like Pacman on a blinking screen, avoiding capture.

“When, then?”

“Eleven. Show starts.”

It was a resigned statement—something given, taken, uselessly true.

“I’m going. They’re my friends. They’re… expecting me.”

Something the media can savor. You aren’t sorry.

At the same time, you want to crush the plasticity of expectation between your nailed hands and do something spontaneous, like Kris has done.

“We have four hours. Please. I can’t leave. Not until tomorrow morning. My flight—”

“They _can’t know._ ” The urgency of your voice strips you; it’s raw, gutteral, and seismic, like a smoker of sixty years. “They’ll kill us. They’ll do something drastic. I don’t know… baby, I don’t even know.”

“They won’t know. No one knows I’m here, except Lizzie.”

He steps forward, skin so close, sweat lines straining like a track star for the finish line—solid eyes—eyes that know you.

So you roughly take his face and kiss it, almost against your will, tonguing difficulty and secrets and tasting his rushed calm, and it fixes nothing, but implies everything.

“Why do we even do this to ourselves?” you whisper against his throat.

“Because we’re idiots,” says Kris, head bowing, as you recall every dark hotel room set for service but used for sin.

“Something like that,” you mumble, yielding.

You make the most of stolen hours, as always. Dragging Kris past the front door but failing to go much further, dragging nails across his jeans like they have no right to exist but for show, dragging your mouth across his curved hips but ignoring the graceful back because there’s no time, now now. Not for that. Not for grace.  



End file.
